


Everybody's Different

by MiskatonicMassacre



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: AH OT6, Fake AH Crew, GTA!AU, M/M, Michael-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 14:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5589394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiskatonicMassacre/pseuds/MiskatonicMassacre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone in the crew loves Michael and Michael loves everyone in the crew. They all offer him different things and he loves them all in different ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody's Different

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for awhile and only just recently got time to write it. I just really wanted to do something that focused on the different types of relationships Michael has with the crew. Hopefully you enjoy!

They were bathed in the heat of the explosion as they rushed down an alleyway for shelter from the blast, and yet it was nothing compared to the heat of Ryan’s mouth suddenly on his as the older man pulled him into a kiss. Michael absently wondered when exactly the other man had managed to pull off his mask. It didn’t matter though, Ryan was shoving him roughly. The bricks of the alleyway were solid against his back as he allowed Ryan to paw at him. Hands tugging his hair, snaking up his shirt, pushing at his hips. Mouth pressing against his, bruising his jaw, nipping his neck. The kiss was violent and desperate, just like they were. This is why they got along.

“God damn it, Michael!” Ryan growled, “You’re so beautiful!” A laugh escaped Michael’s throat at that. Beautiful? He knew that covered in blood, sweat and dirt, he must look anything but. Only, Ryan loved it. He loved the grittiness of it, the proof of the destruction they’d caused. He continued his praise, “So so beautiful. No one does chaos like you do.”

It was always like this after a particularly violent job well done. With enough bloodshed, Ryan could barely keep it in his pants, always insistent on dragging Michael into the nearest alleyway or otherwise laying him down in the back of their getaway car. Sometimes Michael would have to actually remind Ryan that they needed to run from the cops. The guy had a literal boner for murder.

All the same though, Michael loved it. He loved the praise he got for the carnage he caused. He loved the way his arousal mixed with the adrenaline he got from setting off an explosive. He loved that Ryan was just as violent in bed as he was in the streets. But most of all, he loved that no one in the crew could get Ryan going the way he could. Ryan was right, no one did chaos like he did.

Ryan pressed his body so that it was flush with Michael’s, pinning the younger man to the brick building behind him. An echo of running footsteps sounded.

“FREEZE! THIS IS THE LOS SANTOS POLICE!” A cop had them cornered, and in one swift motion Ryan’s gun was out of its holster and into his hand. A bullet came firing out, straight into the officer’s head. He landed with a dull thud on the pavement. All this and Ryan had never even broken the kiss. Goddamn it, if that wasn’t the hottest thing Michael had ever seen. But more police would come.

He broke away from the older man, whose gun was still smoking, and pulled him out of the alleyway and into Michael’s flashy chrome car. The two of them went hurtling down the highway, windows down. That’s where Michael heard it, the sounds of the wind whipping past the speeding car, the oncoming sirens, the metallic ping of bullets against metal, the manic laugh of Ryan in the seat next to him. Michael heard it and thought, this is their love song.

* * *

 

Michael stood in the kitchen alone, gently rubbing his freshly bandaged knuckles, wincing at the throbbing pain in his muscles, and yet grinning in spite of it. The fight that night had been rough, but he had come out on top. He always came out on top. The crowd had been especially wild. Reeling with excitement over the possibility of Ramsey’s treasured fighter finally meeting his match. It wasn’t going to happen though, not that night, not any night. There had been a sickening crunch as Michael’s fist connected with his opponent’s face. The crowd had roared, their screaming loud in Michael’s pounding ears.

Louder than everyone though had been Geoff shrieking, “That’s my boy! That’s my boy! Michael, you beautiful bastard!” Geoff’s wild cackle of a laugh had sounded as the opponent fell. It had rattled off the wall’s announcing Michael’s victory. He had half carried Michael back into the mansion, allowing the younger man’s sweat and blood to soak into his expensive suit as he did. He had broken down the door, crowing to the rest of the crew over Michael’s winning punch.

That had been hours ago, Michael stood now, patched up and ravenous, ready to regain his strength. He opened the fridge and pulled out the first thing he could find, a half eaten sandwich from the deli around the corner. He tore into it, letting the dressing dribble down his chin as he slammed the fridge door.

He was just finishing the last few bites as a voice called from across the kitchen, “There he is. There’s my winner.” Michael grinned at the praise, like a puppy eager to please. Geoff made his way towards the younger man, the usual post-fight spring in his step. He leaned in close enough to count the freckles splashed across Michael’s cheeks and said, “I got a surprise for you.”

It wasn’t a surprise though. Geoff always gave Michael gifts after a fight. From a set of diamond encrusted brass knuckles to a genuine Italian leather jacket, they were always obnoxiously expensive and they spoiled Michael fucking rotten.

From behind his back Geoff pulled a bottle of whiskey, prompting Michael to grin.

“Mmmm, liquor,” said the younger man.

“Not just any liquor. That’s $4000 whiskey, my friend.”

“Oh yeah?” Michael plucked the bottle from Geoff’s hands to read the label, “Michter’s Celebration Sour Mash? Well for $4000 it better taste damn good.”

“Why don’t we crack it open and find out? I’ll make a big strong drink for my big strong fighter.”

Michael laughed, holding the bottle out of reach, “Not with this, you won’t. Let’s save it for a special occasion.”

“Suit yourself,” Geoff shrugged, already heading to the cabinet to pull out a pair of glasses.

“You know, you don’t always have to get me such expensive gifts. I’d be just as happy with a $20 bottle of whiskey.”

“That may be true, but $20 doesn’t get you the best, and my boy deserves the best.” Geoff pressed the now full glass into Michael’s hand, but Michael didn’t have a chance to take a drink before Geoff’s mouth was on his.

The older man kissed slowly, deliberately. He took his time and he savored every moment. It was as though Michael was his prize and he was determined to cherish him. They moved quickly to the bedroom, because fight night always ended in the bedroom.

Once there, Geoff practically worshipped him, showing more tenderness than he ever did out on the streets of Los Santos. The mantra of the night seemed to be, “That’s my boy,” as Geoff said it constantly, low and breathy and yet still brimming with the same pride Michael had heard as Geoff shouted it after his winning punch. As they laid in post coital bliss, Michael knew the mantra was true. He was Geoff’s boy, there to bring him pride, to bring him glory, to be praised and to be be spoiled. He was Geoff’s boy and he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

* * *

 

When no one picked up the phone at the mansion, Michael’s stomach had admittedly dropped. Jail just didn’t have a savory sound to it, but Michael had managed to hang up the phone at the police station like it was no big deal, and he managed to very calmly tell the officers no one was coming to get him. The cops were pretty pleased with that, taking care to be extra rough with Michael as they prepared him for holding. 

It was days before any of the crew came to get him, but eventually Michael heard the metal clang of his cell opening and an officer sneering as he told him, “You’re free to go.” 

It was Jack who was standing, waiting for him, in the front lobby of the jail. He was smiling shyly, apologetically, as if he wanted to say, “Sorry we forgot you.” Instead he clapped Michael on the shoulder and said, “We missed you, buddy.”

On the ride home, Michael was silent. Choosing to sink low in the passenger seat, he stared out the window at the passing city. Jack made no attempt to start conversation either, only watching the younger man carefully out of the corner of his eye. 

When they entered the mansion, the rest of the crew was waiting for them. Gavin greeted them with a surprised squawk, “Michael!,” he cried, “Where the bloody hell have you been?” The atmosphere in the room stiffened as all three gents waited on edge for Michael’s reaction. Jack saw the redhead curl his hand into a fist, but rather than deliver a punch he simply spat, “I was in jail. Where the fuck were you?” 

Michael didn’t need a physical blow to hit the crew where it hurt. Gavin quickly hid his face, feeling guilty and stupid for having abandoned his boy. The rest of the crew all averted their eyes, the same weight of shame creeping over them. Michael stalked out of the room, seething. Maybe it would have been better if he had yelled. They had expected him to yell. As he left he thought he heard Ray mutter, “Why’d you have to ask, idiot?”

They let Michael stew in his room for the rest of the day, no one having the guts to approach him. What was there to say? What could they possibly do to let him know they were sorry? 

It was late in the evening when Jack finally cracked open the door. Geoff had suggested they just leave a plate of food outside the door. Ray quipped that Michael was a big boy who could feed himself if he wanted. Jack ignored them both. He had fixed Michael a plate and decided the least he could do was offer it to the other man. 

Michael was sitting on the bed when he entered, his face turned away so that all Jack could see was a head full of thick red curls. Jack coughed gently so as not to startle the other man, “I uh brought you some dinner in case you might be hungry.” 

There was no reply. 

“I can leave it on the dresser if you want.” 

Still no reply. 

“Okay well I’m just gonna leave it here.” He set the plate down and then walked back to the door, pausing before he stepped through it, “No matter what you think Michael, we really are sorry.” He turned to shut the door behind him but stopped when he heard, “Don’t go.”

Jack did as he was asked, stepping back into the room. Michael’s voice had sounded thick and strained. The younger man shifted on the bed and gingerly pulled off his t-shirt, prompting Jack to immediately rush towards him. Great purple bruises peppered the young man’s torso. They were practically as dark as he was pale. 

“Jesus christ Michael! Who did this to you?” Jack’s voice made a sudden shift from concerned to threatening, a rare tone for the bearded man, “Whoever they are, they’re fucking dead.” 

“It was the fucking guards,” said Michael quietly. “They were so happy to finally have one of us in jail that they...” He trailed off indefinitely, and Jack saw as Michael turned to face him that the younger man’s eyes were rimmed red. 

“Jack,” he said softly, “I know you guys didn’t mean to leave me, I know...but I was really fucking scared.” A tear managed to spill down the redhead’s face and Jack’s heart broke at the sight of it. Michael, who was supposed to be tough and cocky and strong, was now sitting bruised and broken in front of him. Jack wanted nothing more than to protect his boys, and he would never forgive himself for making this one mistake. 

He pulled the other man to him, trying carefully to mind his bruises. He stroked his hair and held him until he calmed down. Michael, for his part, sank into his touch.This was what Jack was for. He was comfort. He was kindness. He was sweet and reassuring when Michael needed it most. 

“I promise,” Jack whispered, his breath threading through Michael’s curls, “I will never ever forget you again.”

* * *

 

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!”

Michael’s screams were almost immediately drowned out by a flurry of bullets. Gavin honestly didn’t know which was worse, the echoes of gunshots to his right or the enraged shouts of Michael to his left. That wasn’t true. As a bullet whizzed just past his ear, Gavin knew he’d take an angry Michael over certain death any day, besides the redhead was kinda cute when he was angry. 

They scrambled into Michael’s car and went hurtling down the street, tires screeching all the way. Gavin did his best to lean out the window, attempting to fire back at their assailants, who had happily given chase. However that only prompted Michael to chastise him loudly, “Get your head back in the car you idiot! You’re gonna get fucking shot!” Michael took one hand off the wheel to roughly shove Gavin back into his seat. The brit couldn’t help himself, he let out a small giggle.

“You think this is fucking funny?” Michael roared.

“Michael, you’ve gone all red,” Gavin replied, trying his best to suppress his laughter.

“I’m gonna make you all red in a second when I fucking beat the shit out of you!”

Michael made a sudden and sharp turn, sending them flying down an alleyway. Gavin’s face smashed into the dashboard of the car and he let out an indignant squawk, “My beak!” Michael threw his head back and cackled at his friend’s distress. 

“That’s what you get you bitch.” 

With Michael threading in and out of back alleys, his foot glued to the gas, it didn’t take them long to lose their pursuers. When Michael finally parked the car behind an old gas station, Gavin was still gingerly holding onto his nose. 

The older man turned to his friend with a look of disgust on his face, “You fucking idiot.” 

“What’d I do?” said Gavin, his voice muffled by his hands.

“What’d you do? You’re going around fucking starting shit with rival gangs! Fucking going around waving your gun around like, oi look at me I’m Gavin Free! I ain’t afraid of no one! I’m just gonna ruin Micool’s day! Oi of course the bloody safety’s on! I’ll just point my gun ‘round willy nilly!” 

“But Michael--”

“Shut up! Just shut your mouth!”

They sat in silence for a few long moments, Michael’s anger stewing. The sun beat down on them through the top of the car as Gavin watched Michael’s chest heave with frustration. Finally Michael turned and said, “Let me see your fucking nose.”

His voice was still stern, but Gavin could tell that the rage was beginning to subside. He gently pulled his hands away from his nose, noticing the red stains all down his hands. Blood, he was bleeding. Michael huffed out a sigh.

“You fucking idiot,” he repeated, but this time there was no venom behind the words. Instead there was almost a fondness, a reluctant sort of affection. Michael said, “You fucking idiot,” the way some people might say, “I love you.” 

Michael pulled a wad of tissues from his back pocket and gently started to wipe the blood from his friend’s face. With every swipe, he cool feel more and more of his anger melt away.

“It doesn’t look like it’s broken, but we should still probably ice it when we get back to the mansion.”

“I’m sorry I got us shot at, Michael.”

The redhead squinted at him and for a moment Gavin was afraid he had misjudged Michael’s slowly ebbing temper. The older man grabbed a fistful of Gavin’s shirt and yanked him forward so that the two of them were nose to bloody nose. Gavin instinctively let out a startled yelp but he was quickly silenced by Michael’s lips pressed against his. The kiss was sweet and tender, yet ended in a playful bite from Michael. The two pulled away from one another, Michael’s hand lingering to gently cup Gavin’s cheek. Sure, Gavin was a pain in the ass but he was Michael’s pain in the ass.

“You fucking idiot,” Michael said with a laugh as he started up the car. 

* * *

 

They sat on the rooftop in silence, the city a comforting orange below them, the sky a serene purple above. The sunset was as easy as the smile pulling at Michael’s lips. He leaned back to lie on the concrete roof, and stuck his arm up towards the sky. He allowed himself to lazily trace the clouds with his finger, his movements slow and steady. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” came Ray’s voice. 

“Nothing,” Michael shrugged, letting his arm fall back down. He watched his companion, who was bent over his precious sniper rifle. The gun was the same pink as the steadily setting sun. Ray ran his hand methodically over the barrel, cleaning off dirt that wasn’t there.

“You really gonna keep polishing that gun of yours? I think it’s good, dude.”

“What else am I supposed to do? Polish yours?”

Ray’s voice was as deadpan as ever, but Michael had seen the corner of Ray’s mouth curl ever so slightly upward, a clear indication that the Puerto Rican was not referring to the pistol strapped to Michael’s hip. 

Moments later and Michael’s jeans were at his ankles, the familiar sensation of Ray’s beard scratching against his thighs. Familiar. Everything about Ray was familiar. A handjob from Ray never lasted long, because he knew just the way Michael liked it. It was almost like he was stroking himself. 

Now Ray was sucking hickeys on his hips, runnings his hands over his thighs. When Ray finally took him into his mouth, Michael moaned. He moaned the way he always did with Ray, who hummed with satisfaction over having gotten Michael to elicit that sound, which he loved so much. 

By the time they were finished, the sun had almost set completely. It’s absence left the sky a magnificent purple, the same deep purple of Ray’s sweatshirt, which Michael’s face was currently buried in. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent. That sweatshirt smelled like Ray. That sweatshirt smelled like home. 

They laid on that roof until the sky went completely dark, fitting together like two boys who were meant to find each other. They stayed intertwined until Michael’s radio crackled to life, Geoff’s voice squawking for the two of them to get into position for the heist. 

“Michael? Michael? I swear to God, you two better not be fucking.”

Michael answered the radio reluctantly, “Yeah yeah. We heard you.” He slid the radio back into his belt and turned to look at Ray, who was already staring back at him. In those dark brown eyes Michael could see hours of camaraderie spent on the living room couch. He could see late nights full of staring out at the city and talking about nothing. Those eyes held years of a friendship that couldn’t be replaced. 

Michael extended his hand to his partner, “You ready for this, man?”

And Ray gladly took it, grinning ear to ear, “For you, man? I’m always ready.” 


End file.
